"Now yield thee," cried Lars Porsena, "Now yield thee to our grace!'

Round turned he, as not deigning
Those craven ranks to see;
Naught spake he to Lars Porsena,
To Sextus naught spake he;
But he saw on Palatinus

The white porch of his home;
And he spake to the noble river
That rolls by the towers of Rome:

"O Tiber! Father Tiber!

To whom the Romans pray, A Roman's life, a Roman's arms, Take thou in charge this day!" So he spake, and, speaking, sheathed The good sword by his side, And, with his harness on his back, Plunged headlong in the tide!

No sound of joy or sorrow

Was heard from either bank, But friends and foes in dumb surprise, With parted lips and straining eyes, Stood gazing where he sank; And when above the surges

They saw his crest appear,

All Rome sent forth a rapturous cry, And even the ranks of Tuscany

Could scarce forbear to cheer.

But fiercely ran the current,
Swollen high by months of rain;
And fast his blood was flowing,
And he was sore in pain,
And heavy with his armor,

And spent with changing blows;
And oft they thought him sinking,
But still again he rose.

Never, I ween, did swimmer,
In such an evil case,

Struggle through such a raging flood
Safe to the landing-place;

But his limbs were borne up bravely
By the brave heart within,
And our good Father Tiber
Bare bravely up his chin.

"Curse on him!" quoth false Sextus.
"Will not the villain drown?
But for this stay, ere close of day,
We should have sacked the town!"
"Heaven help him!" quoth Lars Porsena,
"And bring him safe to shore;
For such a gallant feat of arms
Was never seen before."

And now he feels the bottom;
Now on dry earth he stands ;
Now round him throng the fathers
To press his gory hands;

And now, with shouts and clapping,
And noise of weeping loud,
He enters through the river-gate,
Borne by the joyous crowd.

They gave him of the corn-land,
That was of public right,
As much as two strong oxen

Could plough from morn till night;
And they made a molten image,
And set it up on high-

And there it stands unto this day
To witness if I lie.

It stands in the comitium,
Plain for all folks to see,-

Horatius in his harness,

Halting upon one knee; And underneath is written,

In letters all of gold,

How valiantly he kept the bridge
In the brave days of old.

THE DYING GLADIATOR.

LORD BYRON.

I SEE before me the Gladiator lie:

He leans upon his hand, - his manly brow Consents to death, but conquers agony,

And his drooped head sinks gradually low,

And through his side the last drops, ebbing slow
From the red gash, fall heavy, one by one,
Like the first of a thunder-shower; and now

The arena swims around him- he is gone,

Ere ceased the inhuman shout which hailed the wretch who won.

He heard it, but he heeded not: his eyes

Were with his heart, and that was far away;
He recked not of the life he lost nor prize,

But where his rude hut by the Danube lay,
There were his young barbarians all at play,
There was their Dacian mother, he, their sire,
Butchered to make a Roman holiday, -

All this rushed with his blood.-Shall he expire, And unavenged?-Arise, ye Goths, and glut your ire!

THE DEATH OF AJAX.

WINTHROP M. PRAED. FROM OVID'S

"METAMORPHOSES."

THE Kings were moved; conviction hung

On soft Persuasion's honeyed tongue;

And Victory to Wisdom gave

The weapons of the fallen brave.

That Chief, unshrinking, unsubdued,
Had grasped his spear in fire and feud,

And never dreamed of fear ;

Had stemmed fierce Hector's wild alarm,

Had braved the Thunderer's red right arm, —

But Rage is Victor here.

By nothing could the hero fall

Save by the pangs that conquer all!
He snatched the falchion from his side;
And, "This at least is mine," he cried,
"This e'en Ulysses will not crave:
But let it dig its master's grave!
In many a glorious field of yore

This blade has blushed with Phrygian gore,
And when mine own shall glisten, mine
Shall well become its warlike shine.

Ajax shall fall by Ajax' hand,

A warrior by a warrior's brand."

He spoke, and smiling sternly, pressed
The weapon to his struggling breast.
Too feeble was the hero's strength
To force the weapon's chilling length
From out the reeking wound;
The blood upon its gory track
In rushing eddies bore it back;
And on the moistened ground
There bloomed (as poets love to tell),
Where'er the gushing dewdrops fell,
A melancholy Flower;

The same fair flower had wept beside
The turf where Hyacinthus died;

And, from that fatal hour,

It syllables on every leaf
The record of a double grief.